drawing a long breath. “Mamsie, it wouldn’t be near so hard to get this
floor clean if these old hens wouldn’t keep coming in. There’s one
now!” and Polly flew for the broom again to brandish it wildly after
the marauder. “They get the feathers all over everything.”
“Shut the door then, Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper.
“Oh, they come in just as easily in that hole over by the corner.”
Polly pointed to it with her broom.
“Is there a hole there, Polly?” asked Mrs. Pepper, in surprise.
“Yes, Mamsie,” said Polly, “there is. I’m going to put that box up
against it,” which was no sooner said than done, Polly dragging up an
empty soap box for the purpose. “There, now, old hens, I guess you
won’t get in,” she cried, rubbing her hands in satisfaction.
“Ben must mend that hole just as soon as he has a chance,” said Mrs.
Pepper, snipping off her thread, while Polly set back the broom and ran
over to the stove to get Grandma’s tea.
“Isn’t it good that Phronsie sleeps so long, Mamsie?” said Polly at
last, while she was waiting for the old kettle to boil, and coming up
to her mother’s chair.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pepper. She looked tired and worried, but she smiled.
“She’ll be all right, I think,” she hastened to say.
“I guess she’s better because you brought her over to Grandma’s,” said
Polly, with a happy little laugh, and balancing herself first on one
set of toes and then on the other. “Isn’t she, Mamsie?”
“Maybe,” said Mrs. Pepper, then she laughed too, a sound that made
Polly happier yet. “I think the kettle has boiled, Polly.”
“I believe it has,” laughed Polly, skipping back to the old stove.
And then when Grandma had had her tea and eaten the toast that Polly
had made to go with it, and Polly had washed and wiped the dishes,
Phronsie on the other side of Grandma’s big bed turned over and put
out her hand. “I’m so hungry, Polly,” she said.
“Oh, Pet, are you awake?” Polly ran around the old bed and covered her
face with kisses; “and you’re all well, aren’t you, Pet?”
“No,” said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head as well as she could for
Polly hugging her, “but I’m very hungry, Polly. I am truly.”
“Well, and you shall have something,” declared Polly, flying off into
the kitchen to tell Mrs. Pepper all about it.
So Mamsie dropped her sewing and went in to look at Phronsie to see how
she really was. And everything had to be told to Grandma, who by this
time was in a bad fright lest Phronsie were worse. And then Grandma
said Phronsie must have toast, too, and so Polly ran out to make that.
And presently Phronsie was sitting up, propped against a pillow close
to Grandma’s, and eating with great satisfaction all around a crispy,
crinkly slice of toast that Polly brought to the side of the bed with a
great flourish on a piece of paper, pretending it was a napkin.
And then Polly curled up at the foot of the bed and laughed, and told
Phronsie a merry little story about Parson Henderson’s chickens that
Phronsie always considered part of the eating process. And Grandma
“ohed” and “ahed” through it all, although she hadn’t heard a word,
and everything was getting on as fine as could be, and Mrs. Pepper out
in the kitchen gave a sigh of relief as her needle flew faster than
ever. “It surely hasn’t hurt Phronsie to bring her over, and Grandma
needed us after that chill;” for Polly had run back through the lane
after an early visit to the cottage, saying that “Grandma is awfully
cold, and she can’t get warm, and she’s all huddled up over the stove.”
And Mrs. Pepper had bundled up Phronsie in an old quilt and carried
her over, telling Polly to bring the coat she was trying to finish and
the work-basket. And then Ben and Joel and Davie had all hurried off
to work together, for the two little boys were to help Ben at Deacon
Blodgett’s on this morning.
“It’s so funny to lock the door,” said Polly to herself, as she swung
the old key on her finger and skipped down the lane. “O dear me,
wouldn’t it be nice to ever go off into the woods and pick flowers, and
run--O dear me--and stay as long as I wanted to--just think--oh!” But
here she was at Grandma Bascom’s, and ever so much work to be done.
“I’d stop for them boys to-morrow, I declare I would,” said Mr. Tisbett
to himself, rattling off on the way to collect his customers, “ef I
warn’t engaged to bring up them folks from the city to the Potter farm.
That’s jest it--this busy season--it beats all to know when I can git
another chance so good as this was to-day, and no one to take this
ere seat with me.” He slapped his knees with his horny hand in his
vexation, and set about his day’s work in no very pleasant frame of
mind.
“John!” An old yellow wagon, drawn by an older horse, rattled around a
curve. “I say, John, stop, will ye?”
“I’m a-stoppin’ as fast’s I kin with my horses,” said Mr. Tisbett,
pulling up his pair with a superior air. “What d’ye want, Mr. Potter?”
Mr. Potter guided his old horse up against the stage-driver’s pair, and
bawled out, “Say, those folks ain’t a-comin’ to-morrow.”
“Them city ones?” asked the stage-driver.
“Yes,--a-comin’ Friday; just had a tel’gram.” Mr. Potter drew himself
up with dignity to see the effect on the stage-driver. “’Twas brought
by Hiram Pendleton’s son, an’ he come lickety-split--thought some one
was dead, an’--”
“I don’t care about that,” said Mr. Tisbett, dismissing the narration
by a wave of his hand as of no consequence whatever. “I’ll fetch ’em
from Cherryville deepo Friday insted of to-morrow; that’s the idee,
ain’t it?”
“Yes, ye see--” Mr. Potter stood up in his wagon, he was so anxious to
get all the details of this change of plans in his city boarders well
before the stage-driver’s mind, but that individual was already a good
piece of his journey down the road, his horses kicking up a great dust
while he cheered them on, for his spirits had risen very much indeed.
“Now I’ll take the Pepper boys to-morrow to Cherryville,” he declared,
“an’ I’ve got to go round there to-night when I come home, so I’ll
tell Mis’ Pepper.” This new plan almost made him forget his worry that
otherwise would have seized him when he thought of the Little Brown
House all so shut up and silent.
So all this is the reason why Joel and little David didn’t hear before
that night that they were really and truly going to Cherryville on the
morrow. Then the Little Brown House more than made up for being silent
in the early morning!
“Oh, I wish you were going, Polly!” said Ben the next morning, when she
ran out to the woodpile where he had to work that day to get some ready
for Mamsie, and he rested his busy saw a moment.
“Oh, I’m going sometime,” said Polly, tossing back her brown hair, and
trying to speak cheerily.
Ben’s face didn’t lighten a bit, as he took up his saw.
“And it’s too bad you can’t go,” said Polly. “Dear me!” and she clasped
her hands tightly.
“Oh, I’m going sometime,” said Ben, repeating her words. Then he burst
into a laugh. “But I’ve got to have this wood sawed first.”
“And I’ve got to wash those old breakfast dishes,” said Polly, skipping
off to the kitchen door. “Misery me!” for there was Joel in a dreadful
state of distress. He couldn’t find his cap; search for it high and
low, it was nowhere to be seen.
“Oh, I thought you were all ready, Joel!” cried Polly, in surprise.
“He was--he was,” gasped little Davie, tearfully, and getting in
everybody’s way in his efforts to help along the search.
“Here comes the stage,” said Mrs. Pepper, looking out of the window.
“Joel, run out and ask Ben to let you take his cap.”
“Oh, Mamsie,” began Polly, in dismay, who dearly loved, whenever any of
them were going visiting, to have everything as fine as possible. But
seeing Mrs. Pepper’s eyes, she didn’t finish with “Ben’s cap will be
ever so much too big for him,” as Joel dashed off to ask him.
“You mustn’t keep Mr. Tisbett waiting,” said Mrs. Pepper, “so run
along, boys,” as Joel raced back, cramming Ben’s worn cap on his head
as he pranced down the path to be pulled up over the wheel by Mr.
Tisbett, who performed the same good office for little David. At last a
crack of the whip--and off they went.
Down to Badgertown Centre the old stage-coach swung along, the horses
now at a “pretty pace,” as Mr. Tisbett called it, for he always made a
good showing down the main street, till a sharp scream struck his ears.
“Hulloa there, what you about,” he called; “scaring the horses to
death!” and he pulled them up shortly, and craned his neck at a woman
running along the sidewalk, and shaking a small bandbox tied up with a
cloth cover at him. “Stop--stop,” she gasped faintly.
“Ain’t I a-stoppin’?” said Mr. Tisbett, leaning both hands holding the
old leather reins on his knees. “Gracious, ye don’t need to screech so,
Mis’ Sprigg.”
“I was afraid,” panted the woman, coming up to the stage,
“that--you--wouldn’t stop, Mr. Tisbett.” Her face was very red and the
drops of perspiration rolled down either side.
“Well, I’m a-stoppin’ now,” said the stage-driver, while Joel and David
peered around him to get as much as possible of the interview; “so if
you’ll state what you want, I’ll be obleeged to ye, Mis’ Sprigg.”
“How much is’t to Cherryville?” asked Mrs. Sprigg, depositing her
bandbox on the grass by the side of the road, and pulling out a big
handkerchief to mop her hot face.
“Just what it always was; a quarter,” said Mr. Tisbett. “The price
ain’t changed any since yest’day when you asked me, Mis’ Sprigg.”
“I didn’t know but what you’d take less when you’d had a chance
to think over what good customers we’d been when we lived over to
Cherryville,” said Mrs. Sprigg, scanning the stage-driver’s face with
her beady eyes. “We alwus travelled with you, Mr. Tisbett,” she added
wheedlingly.
“And how much did you travel?” said Mr. Tisbett, scornfully, shifting
his quid of tobacco to the other cheek; “once in a dog’s age, ye come
over to Badgertown.”
Mrs. Sprigg drew herself up to her greatest height, which wasn’t much,
and her beady eyes snapped.
“Well, I can’t stop here with my horses coolin’ their heels _all_ day,”
said the stage-driver. “Are you goin’ to get in for Cherryville or stay
where ye be?” And he shook the reins suggestively.
“I’ve got to go to Cherryville,” snapped the little woman, snatching up
her bandbox from the grass. “My sister’s husband took sick, an’ Eliza--”
“I can’t stop to hear about Eliza,” retorted the stage-driver,
impatiently, and dropping the reins to clamber down over the wheel.
“I’ve got some customers to pick up, an’ some passels, an’ I hain’t
no time to waste in talk. Now, then, Mis’ Sprigg.” He set her bandbox
inside with a hasty hand, then took hold of her arm to help her into
the coach. “Step lively, there!”
“Wait a minute--” she shook him off to peer down the road. “Oh, here
she comes!”
Mr. Tisbett flew around also to see coming down the road, making the
dust fly well at every step, a small girl holding a basket which she
swung back and forth vigorously.
“Hold it straight,” screamed the little woman, and she stamped her foot
on the grass. “Martha Sprigg, don’t you know no better!” But Martha not
hearing, as there were several noises emanating from the basket, kept
up the swinging, and at last reached her mother, who first gave her a
smart slap, and then, after getting the basket away from her, a shake.
“You’ve pretty near killed him, I ’xpect,” declared Mrs. Sprigg,
bending over the basket in concern, from which a loud and indignant
“Mee--ow!” pealed forth. “Now you go right straight back home, you
naughty girl, you, and sew up that seam to that sheet, just as I told
you.”
Martha looked longingly at the stage-coach, and the two boys perched up
on top, then her gaze fell down to her mother. “I want to go,” she said
boldly.
Mrs. Sprigg, with her foot on the step, having first seen Mr. Tisbett
deposit her precious basket inside, turned in astonishment. “Well, I
never!” she ejaculated.
“Let th’ little girl go, can’t ye?” said Mr. Tisbett, good-naturedly,
on seeing Martha’s face; “’twon’t cost nothin’. I’ll take her without
charge.”
For one second Mrs. Sprigg relented, being unable to pass anything by
that did not cost. “No, indeed,” then she cried decidedly; “it’ll cost
over there to Eliza’s for eatin’, an’ Martha’s got to do th’ work to
home. Go right straight back!” She whipped her skirts about her feet
and skipped into the stage-coach.
“Well, there, ye see, I can’t take ye; your Ma won’t let me,” said Mr.
Tisbett, apologetically, to the little girl, who stood twisting her
small red hands together and wistfully regarding his face.
“Oh, let her come, do let her come,” begged Joel, leaning forward on
his high seat at the imminent risk of falling off on his nose; Davie
crowding up close to his shoulder trying to see, too, and crying,
“Please, Mr. Tisbett, let her come--”
“Can’t,” said Mr. Tisbett, swinging himself up to his seat; “that
cantankerous old woman won’t let me--” the last under his breath.
Martha, seeing her last hope which had flamed high at Mr. Tisbett’s
words, disappear, gave a loud scream of disappointment and flung
herself face downward on the grass. The stage-driver, just picking up
the old leather reins, paused and looked over his shoulder. “See here,
Marthy, don’t cry. I’ll take ye some other day.”
Mrs. Sprigg poked her head, with its green veil tied carefully over her
Sunday bonnet, out of the window to listen greedily. Martha sat up on
the grass suddenly to brush away the tears.
“Yes, I will,” said Mr. Tisbett. “You be a good girl an’ run home now,
an’ I’ll come for ye some other day,” and he whirled back in his seat.
“G’lang!” And Mrs. Sprigg was picking herself back from the opposite
leather-covered seat and straightening her bonnet after the jerk of the
old coach as the horses sprang off.
“Oh, we can’t leave her,” screamed Joel, at the end of the seat, trying
to see Martha; little Davie in just as much distress, huddled up in the
middle.
“Look out--you set still,” roared Mr. Tisbett at Joel. “If you don’t,
I’ll put you off, an’ you won’t go neither,” which had such good effect
that Joel crowded up closely to Davie. “Oh, I will sit still, I will,
Mr. Tisbett,” as they rumbled off, trying to make up for lost time on
the way to the store where they were to pick up the other passengers
and the parcels.
When this place was reached, there was a little detention to allow an
old gentleman with crutches to get helped in and settled comfortably by
his daughter, who was the only other passenger. And then their trunk, a
small black leather one, was swung on behind, and the various parcels
(for Mr. Tisbett, of course, carried the express to the different
families between Badgertown and Cherryville) were packed in, and with a
“good-by, Joel and David,” from Mr. Atkins, who came out on the steps
to see them off, away they went again, not to stop except once or twice
to give the horses a breathing spell, until they drew up at Cherryville
Centre.
“It’s a dull day enough,” observed Mr. Tisbett, sociably, on one of
these resting spells, and crossing his legs leisurely, “for trade, that
is. Beats all how that Mis’ Sprigg’s tongue goes,” he pointed backward
with his tongue toward the open window.
Joel, who cared little for Mrs. Sprigg’s tongue, now began to use his
own, clamoring freshly to be allowed to drive, or at least, to hold
the reins when the horses were resting.
“When you’re bigger, ye may,” said Mr. Tisbett, pushing back his straw
hat from his forehead.
“I am bigger,” said Joel, straightening up.
“I see,” said the stage-driver with a loud “so ye be.”
“Then can’t I take ’em?” cried Joel, triumphantly.
“Well, ye’ll be bigger yet in a little while--you wait and see,” said
Mr. Tisbett. “You’ll grow faster ef you’re quiet.”
“Will I?” cried Joel, eagerly.
“Yes, indeed,” the stage-driver nodded emphatically. “You’ll be as big
as Ben if you don’t look out. That’s his cap, ain’t it, you’ve got on
your head?”
Joel, at this, reminded of his head and what it carried, clapped his
hands to it. “Yes, ’tis,” he nodded.
“Well, now, seem’ you’ve got Ben’s cap on your head, you ought to have
some sense like Ben has, _in_ your head.” The stage-driver, at that,
raised the reins and “g’langed” to his horses, and away they went once
more settling down to work.
Suddenly all three up on the top seat began to be aware that there
was a lively commotion down within the old stage, and a long crutch
waved out of the window, besides various cries in as many different
voices, made Mr. Tisbett think he must pull up his horses and get down
and investigate, which he did at once, thrusting his red face in the
window. “What in creation--” But he got no further, the young woman who
had waved her father’s crutch to attract attention and stop the coach,
vying with Mrs. Sprigg to make herself heard. The old gentleman said
nothing, but his eyes blazed.
“One of you ladies, at a time,” begged Mr. Tisbett, waving his hands
deprecatingly. “I’d be delighted to hear it all, if one of you would
wait for th’ tother--”
But that was precisely what neither would do, but Mrs. Sprigg got her
story in shrilly above the other woman.
“My cat’s gone--he’s let it out o’ th’ basket.”
“Indeed, I did not.” The old gentleman was so indignant, he found his
voice.
“Pa hasn’t touched her old cat,” cried the young woman, angrily. “The
very idea!”
“He’s done nothin’ but poke th’ basket all the while with his crutch,”
declared Mrs. Sprigg, “ever sence he got in, an’ th’ cover’s flew up,
an’ see there!” She held up the basket, and sure enough, the cover was
up, and no cat there.
“Well, the cat’s under th’ seat prob’ly,” said Mr. Tisbett, in the
midst of the babel of tongues. “I’ll wait while you get down an’ get
her, Mis’ Sprigg, but you must hurry up.” With that he rested one
foot on the step and his hands on the window casing, while with many
mutterings about neighbors who wouldn’t keep their meddling sticks and
crutches to themselves, and just as emphatic answers that there hadn’t
been any meddling sticks and crutches, and that the rickety old cover
was to blame for the whole performance, Mrs. Sprigg slid off from
the old leather swinging seat and began to prowl about in the dark
corners for her straying pet, when, without a bit of warning, out shot
something big and furry over Mr. Tisbett’s head, clawing the straw hat
as it went, to land a dozen feet away on the roadside, and disappear
over the stone wall.
“My land o’ Goshen!” exclaimed the stage-driver, pushing back his straw
hat where it had been thrust over his eyes, as Mrs. Sprigg’s face came
up to the window. “Oh, my cat!” she screamed wildly, and rattling the
door to get out; “catch him--catch him!”
“I’ll catch him,” cried Joel, tumbling off from his seat and down over
the wheel, followed by Davie, who never stopped to think of what had
seemed to him before to be a dangerous proceeding, and racing after
Joel’s heels, both boys were soon over the stone wall.
“They’ll scare him worse,” cried Mrs. Sprigg, now down by the side of
the road, and in a thicket of straggling blackberry bushes, and she
wrung her hands.
“Plague take your old cat!” exclaimed Mr. Tisbett, in a panic over the
boys. “Come back here--your Ma won’t like it,” he shouted, but he might
as well have saved his voice, for it was carried off by the wind long
before it could reach the two little flying figures, as they dashed
up to the edge of a clump of bushes. But just here the unexpected
happened--the cat with long leaps was making her way within the
thicket, when a dog running through the bushes came face to face with
her, nearly knocking her over, and Joel, seizing that instant, had her,
though kicking and struggling dreadfully, held fast in his arms.
“I’ve got her--I’ve got her!” he yelled clear across the field, his
black eyes shining in triumph, and running as fast as he could for her
kicking and clawing, Davie stumbling along by his side, begging him to
let her go, and wild with fright as he saw a long bloody scratch on one
of the little brown hands.
“No, sir--ee!” declared Joel; “there, now, I’ve got your other old hind
leg,” this to the cat, and gathering up the long paws with a good grip.
“You can’t scratch me any more,” and presently he somehow got over the
stone wall.
“Now give that pesky animal to me,” commanded Mr. Tisbett. So Joel,
although he much preferred to put the cat himself into the basket, was
obliged to hand it over and stand quietly by, while it was crammed into
its prison. And then Mr. Tisbett remarking--“We won’t have no more
stoppings out of _this_ stage till you get to Cherryville,” produced a
rope from underneath the seat and securely tied on the cover, making
it fast with a generous number of knots, and no one but Davie took any
notice of Joel’s bloody little hands.
It wasn’t till they got to Cherryville and stopped at the Inn for
dinner, Mrs. Sprigg and her cat and her bandbox having been dropped at
“Eliza’s,” that the old gentleman as soon as he was helped up to the
long piazza to sink down in one of the big chairs, said, “Hey, look at
that boy,” and he rapped on the floor with his crutch; then pointed to
Joel.
Joel put his hands behind his little blue cotton blouse. He had wiped
them pretty clean, but couldn’t succeed in getting off all the dingy
stains.
Mrs. Christy, the landlady, was bustling in the doorway, preparatory to
ringing the big dinner-bell. “What’s that?” she said, peering at Joel.
“Nothing,” he tried to say, squirming worse than ever. But little Davie
piped out, “It was the cat.”
“Let me see your hands,” said Mrs. Christy, giving up all thoughts just
then of ringing the dinner-bell. So Joel had to show them. “O dear me!”
she exclaimed. “Now that’s too bad, the cat must have hurt you just
awful.”
“Phoh, she didn’t hurt much,” said Joel, trying to edge off, little
Davie having the hardest work not to let the tears roll down his cheeks.
“You come right here,” said Mrs. Christy, “an’ wash ’em good an’ clean,
an’ I’ll give you some court-plaster. Then, says I, you’ll be all ready
to set down an’ eat when Mr. Tisbett is. Come along and take off your
cap,” she said to David.
Joel clapped his hands up to his head, then stared at Davie, his black
eyes getting bigger than ever. Little Davie, having been unable all
this time to look higher than Joel’s poor hands, now stared back at him.
“Oh--oh!” he screamed in the greatest consternation; “it’s gone--it
isn’t there. Oh--oh!” and in a minute the whole long piazza was in an
uproar that brought every lodger to the scene. Ben’s cap was not only
not on Joel’s head--it was nowhere to be seen.
Joel cried steadily all through dinner, the tears running down his
round cheeks, without the slightest thought of the boarders staring at
him, as he sat back in his chair; and all attempts to make him partake
of the nice things that the landlady and “Mandy” piled on his plate,
failed, while little Davie softly sobbed next to him, until good Mrs.
Christy and the stage-driver were almost at their wit’s end. Finally
the old gentleman at the other end of the long table, laid down his
knife and fork, and exclaimed “Hem--” in such a loud voice, everybody
knew he was getting ready to say something quite important.
“Here, boy--look here. _Hem!_” It was so very loud now and commanding
that even Joel stopped a moment. Seeing this, Davie listened with all
his heart. Could anything help them out of this dreadful trouble?
_Ben’s cap lost!_ “I’ve got something for you that you’ll like a great
deal better’n your old cap; it was too big anyway for you.”
“I wouldn’t like it better,” screamed Joel, a great deal worse than
before; “this was Ben’s, and I’ve--lost--it!”
“Lavinia,” said the old gentleman, giving his daughter a little key out
of his waistcoat pocket, “you go to my trunk and get out that little
black cap.” He dropped his voice so that no one else could hear.
“Not the one you’re taking to Jim!” said Lavinia, whispering back.
“You do as I say,” commanded the old gentleman, fiercely. If he could
have reached his crutch, he would have pounded the floor with it, but
it was left in the corner of the big dining room. So Lavinia went off
with the little key in her hand, and presently she came back with a
brand new black cloth cap in the other hand.
“Now stick that on that boy’s head,” said the old gentleman. “Now,
says I, whatever your--name--is, boy, you take Ben, whoever--he--is,
that cap. He’ll like it a great deal better because it’s a new one. And
then come back and finish your dinner, Lavinia.”